


Arm x Candy

by brocon



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dubious Consent, F/M, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Neon is more than she seems, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set in Yorknew Arc, Underage Drinking, canon divergence maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27291466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocon/pseuds/brocon
Summary: This trend called "Halloween" has come all the way from Yorknew, catching on at the Nostrade mansion. Neon plans a Halloween event, insisting on dragging Kurapika along with her. He knows exactly what this is - a spoiled rich girl showing him off to all of her friends, pretending that they're dating. A bodyguard on a job, reduced to arm candy.But he's made the dreadful mistake of underestimating her, and the night becomes way more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Kurapika/Neon Nostrade
Comments: 19
Kudos: 29
Collections: HxHween Madness 2020 Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of a ship auction, which was won by @Cb_w!
> 
> Additionally, this was also written for a Halloween fic event with my friends.
> 
> I've never written Kurapika or Neon before, so I hope I do justice to their characters! As for the setting, you can squint and pretend that there's room for this to happen in canon, or consider it canon divergent.
> 
> Please enjoy~

The Sonne Limarch Fanclub, of which Neon Nostrade is the president and sole financial benefactor, is holding a spooky evening event for diehard fans. Neon has assured her father it will be a group of girls around her age, locked away in the back of a library and marathoning a bunch of horror movies. They’ll drink apple cider, talk about Sonne Limarch (because, of course,) play some trivia games, and have a costume contest.

“They call it Hall-O- _ween_! It caught on in the fashion district of Yorknew, spread to all of Saherta, and will soon spread everywhere else, too. It’s So. Much. Fun!” She pulls at her tights to straighten them, the spiderwebs that wrap from her ankles to her thighs ripple in the waves, and she picks little bits of lint off them with her glittering nails. Kurapika tries not to look at them, his skin boiling.

Trying to keep his voice even, strip it of all bias and annoyance, he says, “If it will just be you and a bunch of girls, you should ask Baise or Melody to take you, Miss Neon.”

“No way! A woman like Baise would stand me up in front of everyone. I’d look like a _baby_ next to her.”

It’s painfully clear to Kurapika that he’s never spent any time around young women, because he doesn’t understand. He couldn’t imagine not wanting to have a male friend accompanying him somewhere because he might look younger or less attractive in comparison. “And what’s wrong with Melody?”

“Oh, Kurapika.” She shakes her head, talking down to him. “Melody wouldn’t enjoy being gawked at by that kind of judgmental, shallow crowd.”

 _Then why hang out with said ‘judgmental, shallow crowd,’_ he wants to ask, to talk right back to her in a tone identical to hers. Instead, his voice splinters unevenly. “She’s a professional, you shouldn’t underestimate her. It’s a job.”

She sighs, the hot air from her strawberry lips making her bangs jump. “You don’t understand a woman’s heart at all. If you did, you’d know why it has to be you.”

 _What’s that supposed to mean?_ He doesn’t want to go either, but he will, since it’s clearly required of him. If she regarded them equally, he wouldn’t be here in this grossly grandiose bedroom, summoned at the last moment and told he’s taking a seventeen-year-old girl to some _Halloween_ party tomorrow night, while the other bodyguards will be running interference on an important shipment of goods that was stolen from Mr. Nostrade. Kurapika sighs, his own breath smelling like stale coffee. “So, I’ll be the only guy there?”

To that, she just smiles. Then she stands and rushes to her closet, grabbing articles of clothing and stuffing them into her arms, a sleeve here and a scarf there dragging the ground as she dances back over to the bed. She throws them into the air, watching the colorful fabric cascade down onto the massive bed like confetti. It’s odd to see her moving as a free agent across her room, without her attendants at her hips, offering their arms, their smiles, their coos of encouragement to Miss Neon Nostrade. Instead, Eliza and Mercuria, the new attendant, stand at opposite corners of the room, like marble statues. Smiling and staying entirely out of the way.

“Okay! I’ve narrowed it down to these six outfits.”

Kurapika decides to watch from the chair as she pulls and pushes her accessories into the proper positions, laying them out on the bed as if the bodies had evaporated from inside them. They’d all been laying next to each other on her silky pink sheets, not suspecting a thing before they were raptured away, leaving only their perfectly-planned ensembles.

When she finishes laying them out perfectly, she spreads out her arms like a prophet parting a sea, like this is really the grandest thing to be happening in her teenage existence. He can’t properly see them from this angle of sitting, but it doesn’t much matter when it comes to her. She’ll demand he choose something, then completely disregard his opinion and pick whatever she wants. That’s what she does with everyone.

He envies her and her simple life pleasures so much it makes his dinner press against his esophagus. Casting his judgment with a single flippant finger, he points at something that looks like it has wings, not waiting for her explanation. “That one.”

Words die in her throat, and her smile dies too, just for a moment, as she looks down at him. Why her silence feels like a needle, stuck beneath his rib somewhere near his heart, he chalks up to coincidence. He is, after all, very on edge tonight. He’s easily sliceable, his trauma perched on the surface of his skin. The last few nights in particular, he’s been seeing fire swallowing fields he used to roll in, bloody parts of bodies soaked through burlap sacks, eyeballs still quivering as they’re slid into jars, loud laughter shaking his body until he shoots up from bed in the middle of the night, cold sweat burning his back.

He thinks for a moment that she’ll fight, cry, and complain about his neglect. But, almost as though she understands that he’s too vulnerable for this, or maybe that this task was never that important to start with, she smiles again. Slipping her eyes closed, she scoops up the winged costume into her arms. “Alrighty. This one it is, then.” Then she touches him on the shoulder, trailing to the center of his back and giving a small rub. “You go on to bed. I’ll tell Dalzollene.”

Her touch crawls down his spine and makes him think of the fire, so he jumps up. “Thank you, but I have work other work to do, if we are done here.”

“I’ll tell Dalzollene. I order you to go to bed, so you can prepare to take me tomorrow.” Her voice is suddenly concrete, festive nails pinching the fabric of his suit jacket hard, until he can feel the threads of the back-seam straining along his spine. “Don’t bring this floppy, dreary attitude.”

The suit jacket he’s been wearing for the last few months finally feels like a second skin on him, ever since he realized the traditional Kurta tunic he’d been wearing drew too much attention while serving in the position of a bodyguard. It is better he not be seen, because he’s not a bodyguard for show. But even if he was just for show, the bright tunic of a dead people isn’t considered intimidating in most places of this vast, cruel world. When he hung it in a closet that doesn’t belong to him, knowing he won’t touch it again for months, maybe years, it felt like the Spiders severed another piece from him. The destruction of his people from his own self is the final step in their genocide.

He hates this new skin on his body and the brat of a girl whose existence has forced him to wear it. “Yes, ma’am.” He breaks free from her nails as he walks out. When he bows in her doorway, she’s gripping the outfit tightly in her hands, wrinkling the fabric.

“Goodnight, Kurapika. See you tomorrow!”

* * *

Not even Kurapika’s bad attitude could ruin her excitement, and when he wakes up the next day the “mission” is still happening. He’s still expected to escort her to some girly costume party in a library where they’ll probably shriek and yell every time Sonne Limarch appears on the screen. There will be nothing to guard her against, nothing for him to do but try to read books by the light of a flickering projector above the sound of teenage girls chattering about inane things. He won’t be able to rest, knowing how much time he’s wasting by being there.

Melody finds him sulking in the courtyard at lunchtime, walking directly to him even though he has tried incredibly hard to hide in the leaves of a massive fig tree in a far corner of the property. Her small body climbs up to him slowly, calmly, and he expects her to say something about his heartbeat attracting her bloodhound nose from miles away. Instead, she sits and pulls a croissant and some jam from a small cloth bag patterned with cute ghosts, bats, and black cats. The Halloween phenomenon has gotten to her as well, it seems, even though she isn’t one for trends.

When she finally speaks, she says, “Nervous about tonight?”

Kurapika threw the handful of orange leaves that he had been shredding at her, weakly, covering the brim of her hat. “Are you teasing me right now?”

“Not at all. Any boy your age would feel nervous around a bunch of teenage girls. Especially when their ring leader is _that_ teenage girl.”

He smiles despite himself. He always smiles despite himself when he’s around Melody. “That’s our boss you’re talking about.”

Her smile peeks out from one side of her mouth. “Yes, well, she can be a handful.”

Even Melody thinks so, which makes him feel uneasy. Honestly, he’s never been around Neon on a one-on-one basis before, and even though he’s known that it’s a possibility with this job, he didn’t think it would happen if he kept a cool distance. “Surely I would be more useful on the cargo assignment tonight.”

“Now you’re just whining about the inevitable.” The wind tugs at her hat, and she takes it off before it flutters away, leaning her messy hair against the branch behind her. “I wouldn’t say stuff like that tonight, though. It’s a little cruel.”

 _But Neon loves cruelty_ , he wants to say, but restrains himself. “The moment we get there, she won’t hear anything I have to say anyway. You know how she is, she drags people along to witness her, to hear her talk, not to actually have a conversation with them.”

“When the assignment first came in, they tried to assign me to it, but Miss Neon insisted that it had to be you. I’m a better listener than you are, so maybe she plans on actually talking to you.”

What Neon said about Baise and Melody comes to his mind, and it’s obvious why he was chosen. “I’m an unintimidating guy, around her age, who could be argued to be attractive. There was no one else among us who could have filled that social position.”

That makes her laugh as loud as he’s ever heard her laugh. As she recovers from her laughter, she puts the remainder of the jam back into the cloth bag and brushes crumbs off her tunic. “I think ‘unintimidating’ is the arguable part.”

His face heats up despite the autumn breeze making him shiver. “It doesn’t matter. There won’t be anyone or anything to protect her from.”

“Then take the night off. You’re stuck there anyway, getting paid for it, and there won’t be any concerns for once. Interact with girls your own age, watch the movies, and relax. I hear Sonne Limarch is hypnotic to watch on the big screen.” She waves her finger as though she’s conducting an orchestra, which is an endearing habit she doesn’t realize she has.

He imagines a dark, cool library and begins to think maybe she’s right.

Then a butler he’s never seen before appears beneath the tree. “Miss Neon would like you to choose your costume. Please come with me.”

Kurapika’s optimism sinks faster than Melody’s finger as it falls back into her pocket.

The butler leads Kurapika into his own room, which immediately makes him feel violated. He hates having his space entered without permission, his things touched, his private life turned public. It feels like having his home invaded, turned inside out, and exposed to invaders.

Just like in Neon’s room last night, there are outfits laid out on the bed, but only five choices.

“I apologize for the selection. Miss Neon only just decided she would like for you to go to tonight’s event in costume—she only gave us a few hours to get outfits together, and this is all we could find on the premises that would fit you.” He’s sweating, dabbing his large widow’s peak with a white cloth, expecting this selection to be ruled _unacceptable_ , to be yelled at for being unable to come up with more, better options in the small timeframe he was given.

“It’s fine—” he starts, then feels his breath mangle when he sees his own Kurta tunic laying on the bed.

One of the only things he has left from his decimated home and culture, offered up as a _costume_. Seen by the well-meaning outsider as the same caliber of clothing as a vampire-esque, gothic tuxedo; flowy, bright harem pants and a sheer midriff shirt reminiscent of a cartoon genie; black and turquoise checkered horse jockey uniform, riding crop included; and a fluffy, off-white cashmere hoodie with a bear-eared hood, matching paw gloves, and shorts with a bear tail that all lay before him as options.

No doubt multiple servants of similar size to him are missing their most costume-like pieces of attire, donated directly to the most spontaneous and unnecessary desires of their seventeen-year-old boss. Their cultures, side jobs, and hobbies laying out as costumes, just like his own. 

As much as he feels for the owners of these outfits, they are all embarrassing when imagined on his own body, and he doesn’t want to even look at them.

When Kurapika turns his head away, the butler bows. “I’m very sorry.”

“Is it really necessary for me to dress up for this event?”

“I’m afraid Miss Neon won’t accept otherwise. If I can be honest,” his voice drops to a whisper, even though they are alone in Kurapika’s private quarters, “we are all holding our breaths, hoping you won’t give her reason to tear her room apart. We just want this to go smoothly so that Miss Neon may enjoy her night.”

Kurapika heaves a sigh. “Yes, of course. You’re right.” Compliance is the easiest road with her, he’s been with the Nostrade family long enough to have learned that. No matter how degrading, unnecessary, or dangerous, it’s best to comply with her whenever possible. Otherwise, the results are days of struggling, calling Mr. Nostrade and acting as a mediator, negotiator, and babysitter.

Looking at his options, he remembers Melody’s sage words: Relax. It won’t be a bitter and boring night if he doesn’t make it one. He can enjoy himself and take a night off, if he plays his cards right. Watch a couple of movies with people his own age. Lay on the floor of a library, perched on a stack of blankets, and flip through a book of poetry or history he has no time to read on an average day in his life. It doesn’t sound bad.

His hands fall on his familiar threads, smiling as a rush of comfort hits him. It’s a bit of a blessing, to have a way to avoid his tunic sitting, unused, for years. Even if it is being considered a _costume_.

At 8pm sharp he’s out in front of the gate in his old, familiar blue and yellow tunic. It feels good compared to the heaviness of the suit, but he can’t ignore how out-of-place he feels already, standing among butlers and other guards in identical black suits. He feels like bright prey on dark bark that hasn’t yet gotten the memo about camouflage. He wonders when a predator will come sniffing.

That is, until Neon finally steps out from behind the double doors being held open for her; her body bright and glowing larger than he could ever glow. Her outfit isn’t pre-set like his options were, the familiar wings that he had pointed to are now on full and grand display in the darkness—the vibrant red and pink of butterfly wings attached to her back are a familiar sight.

“I’m a Hemotropic butterfly!” She says to him, spinning in a slow circle so he can get a good look at the craftsmanship. Wearing a black poncho sweater that sways with the wings and covers her torso, her red tights beneath are like the butterfly’s abdomen. “I just love them—Daddy bought me a farm of them when I was a little girl. But he said the upkeep of finding them fresh blood was too intensive and messy. None of the butlers wanted to do it! But what’s the point of having a farm of Hemotropic butterflies if you’re just going to give them nectar? So I had Daddy sell them when I was fourteen. But I’m thinking, maybe now, since I’m older, I can get more and care for them myself.”

He’s seen them before. The Hunter exam feels like it was ten years ago, in an old era of his naivety that has been killed off since. There’s a crunching of gravel as the limo pulls up and stops in front of them. “Maybe I should have been the butterfly,” he smirks, trying to coax himself into a good mood. “I’m the bodyguard, I’m the one who has to fly over if you get hurt.”

It’s now that she looks over his “costume,” knowing that it’s not a costume. When choosing it, he forgot that she’s seen him in it before. For a moment, he expects her to protest, call him a cheater, make him go inside and change, or call off the entire night. Instead, she says, “Silly boy, you might be able to sense danger, but you’re horrible at sensing pain.”

He’s about to ask her what that means when she grabs him by the tunic, pulling him into the backseat after her. As her bodyguard, he rarely sits in the backseat next to her. Never alone. And when he folds his hands in his lap, they pull away, and he realizes what a pair they are—bright yellow pattern on his tunic curling like stamens on his chest, sitting next to a butterfly girl who hunts for blood. Even though she’s immensely brighter and more out of place in the dark, stoic limo, she definitely doesn’t feel like prey.

The library is massive and pearly white, with just a few lights on inside. There are already guards standing outside the doors, but Kurapika can’t recognize if they’re in the employ of Mr. Nostrade or the other guests already inside. It makes him feel even more like an accessory. No one needs this many guards to host a girls’ movie night inside a library, unless they’re all low caliber mannequins.

 _Relax._ It doesn’t matter. It’s a night off, remember? And he can certainly use a night off.

She takes his arm before they walk inside together, and he sighs, steadying himself to play the role he recognizes he’s already been cast in: arm candy.

Inside, the library is even more magnificent, the grand archway welcoming them in like an open mouth. In the dead center of the entrance is a marble fountain, bubbling streams of water backlit in various neon lights, and the plaque says, “Generously donated by Light Nostrade.”

Neon’s teeth light up purple as she smiles. “Daddy has plenty of benches, statues, and children’s study programs with his name on them. It would take too long to see them all—come on!”

When they come upon the large, open area set up for movie viewing, about fifteen girls jump up and down, waving and running over to her. Taking her hands in theirs and talking about Sonne Limarch, how grateful they are for her funding this fun evening. About how wonderful she and her father are, and, of course, how cute her date is! Whispers of “ _I’m so jealous! He’s so cute!”_ Don’t miss his ears. But even put in this awkward position, he feels himself relax, shoulders drooping as he stares up at the glittering chandelier high above their heads. This isn’t bad. It’s tolerable, for certain. If Neon wants to feel like she has a boyfriend in front of some girls she wants to impress, it’s not a big deal, as long as she doesn’t cross any lines.

He’s pretty much accepted his fate for the evening, passively embraced this role. Melody would be proud of him, if not tease him a bit for being the best arm candy out of all the Nostrade family’s employees.

But strangely, Neon and the girls don’t talk for long. Just when Kurapika’s about to take a seat on one of the pillows set up for movie viewing, they all pat her back and waive to her, as if she’s leaving. _“See you next time! Thanks again!”_

“Nice to meet you, Kurapika!” One of the girls says. She’s dressed like a nun with blood running down her eyes. He doesn’t remember his name being said. Just how long had Neon been planning this in immaculate detail, telling all of them that a guy named Kurapika would be joining her?

“Are we…. going somewhere?”

“Come on, we’re going to be late!” Neon pulls him deeper into the library, where the lights aren’t on, leading him down a dark staircase, the air immediately smelling more subterranean and denser than above. Instead of a chill, a wave of heat hits them.

Down another set of stairs. There’s a pounding down below, echoing beneath the ground, like large animals being kept in cages beneath the library. The stairs get less polished as they go down, no more direction signs at every floor level they descend. He has no idea where they are, what her plans are, and his heart quickens despite them being in a library surrounded by guards. Wherever she’s leading him, her safety is his sole responsibility.

“Stop! Where are we going?” He pulls his arm from her grasp, halting both of them in the middle of a platform a few levels underground. There’s only a single, flickering bulb above them.

“Don’t be a spoilsport! Did you really want to hang out in a dim library all night?”

“Yes—well, no. But yes.”

Too late. Her wings are carrying her down one more flight of steps, and he runs after her, not able to grab her before she reaches the bottom level and slips through a set of doors at the furthest basement level. The pulsing of noise and heat behind the doors gives Kurapika pause, just for a moment, before plunging in after her. The roar goes from muffled to full volume, like fireworks set off suddenly next to his ear, and he winces. He’s never heard human voices and music reach these volumes. It’s amazing that he didn’t hear it upstairs.

Inside, there’s a massive crowd shuffling about—yelling, dancing, stumbling, dropping food and drinks onto the cobbled floor. The lights above range from dingy yellow to siren red and neon blue, flashing and flickering in time with deafening music. There are tents and booths that look like vendor stalls, but he’s not sure if they’re selling, hawking, or giving away free drinks. All of this is set inside an underground tunnel that spans for what seems like miles, high arched ceilings composed of large cut fieldstone. Whatever its purpose had originally been, it looks ancient, and certainly no place for a destructive party of this caliber.

Large lettering on the wall spells out: **H A L L O W E E N**. And there are costumes for sure, so many colors and accessories and glowsticks that he can barely process it all. Fake-fur werewolves and scantily clothed succubi crawling atop one another in every corner, those with and without Nen, all lost in the hedonism that they’ve come to bathe in.

When he finds Neon, she already has a drink in her hand. A red solo cup of sparkling blue liquid that smells like alcohol. He says, “What are you doing?” But it immediately gets swallowed up by the noise. She tilts her head, cutely, and he wrestles the cup from her hands. He finds he has to yell, just to be heard: “What is this? _What are you doing?!_ ”

“It’s a party!” She says, not needing to scream for him to read her pouty lips, red as her butterfly wings and glowing brightly in the semi-dark. It seems her wings were created with reflective materials, because the red and pink glow brightly as well. When Kurapika looks down at his tunic, the yellow is naturally glowing, but he can see the fibers worn and fraying, a break out of pilling littering the surface after years of rough use. His face heats up and he’s not sure if the shame is owed to himself for not noticing or to his people for letting it get in such a sorry state.

Neon taps the cup he took from her, winking. “It’s called Unicorn Blood,” she says, and breaks into a fit of giggling.

There are so many ways he needs to protest this deceitful endeavor to her, lecture her about how her father has no idea this is what she’s doing, she basically lied to him, she’s endangering herself and Kurapika’s career by pulling this kind of bait-and-switch, and _who exactly_ is hosting a party like this beneath a library? But the music is too loud, he’d have to yell all of it above the roar, and he’s not sure he can even get that loud and keep his cool. The air is heavy with tobacco and marijuana smoke, making his throat bone dry. There’s an undercurrent of sweat and alcohol that makes him nauseous. A man passes by them, live snakes wrapped around his body. Somehow, this is worse than the chaos of the Hunter exam, with the familiar feeling of not knowing who is friend or foe.

Under the cover of this atmosphere, Neon suddenly charges for the Unicorn Blood. She says, “ _Gimme~_ ” in a sweet voice, sharp and close to his ear as she reaches for the solo cup in his hand, her breasts pressed to his bicep, and he can feel how small her body is. Her Nen ability doesn’t protect her in the slightest. She’s just a fragile teenage girl in a den of dangerous, drunk strangers.

It’s pure impulse that makes him down the drink himself before she can get to it, swallowing quickly before the sickly-sweet alcoholic taste makes him gag. He drops the cup to the ground, as seems the custom in this place, and steps back as though it can still assault his tastebuds from the floor.

He thinks she’ll pout, but she smiles, touches his chest. “Was it tasty?”

All of his scoldings culminate into one thought that still tastes like burning sugar: “You’re too young for this,” he yells.

“Kurapika,” she mouths, and he can’t hear her voice, so he’s almost certain none of the words are being verbalized. But he can still understand her perfectly. “We’re basically the same age.”

It’s true, but it’s not true at all. Even if the thumping bass weren’t giving him a migraine and rendering him mute, he couldn’t begin to explain it to her. They need to go someplace else—back to the higher level of the library with those kind, but overzealous, girls, and have a conversation about them not being equals. His life up to this point has aged him, made him ancient. He can’t begin to comprehend that he’s still a teenager, even though it is a biological fact.

When he leans in to grab her and take her out of here, he gets a handful of her fluffy black poncho. Maybe his senses are dulled, but she’s _fast_ as she ducks, dipping down and out of her own poncho and leaving it in his hands. He only gets a glimpse of her skin-tight black dress beneath, the sweetheart neckline fitting in dangerously well with this underground scene, before she disappears in the crowd, ducking and weaving so that her bright red wings don’t get crumpled between shoulders.

Like a Hemotropic butterfly swarming on a battlefield.


	2. Chapter 2

Kurapika’s groan gets lost in the dull roar as he takes off after her like rushing out of a starting gate, tucking her black poncho beneath his arm. Trying to duck beneath the elbows, gagging from the alcohol, sweat, and body spray, he finds he doesn’t possess the grace that she does when moving through crowds. They don’t part for him. He knows his eyes are red beneath his contacts, but no one is paying attention – he doesn’t look like a bodyguard, a skilled Nen user, or the last surviving member of a legendary clan of people. Here, he is just another teenager in a costume, trying to chase after some girl at a massive party.

Not a single person steps aside for him, and he can’t keep up with her, losing sight of her bright hair bobbing beneath a sea of exposed flesh and cheap fabric. The swig of alcohol he chugged to keep it out of Neon’s system is hitting his, and it’s _strong_ , the flavor of it resting in the back of his throat; his body is threatening to vomit it back up. Heart quickening in his chest, he isn’t sure if it’s from the nausea or the stress of losing sight of her. Heart pounding in his throat, so many voices hit his ears and hot gusts of breath assault him from every angle, getting tangled in his hair.

He needs to get out of this crowd—he stumbles, shoving himself between two shoulders, saying, “Excuse me,” not able to hear his own voice. A firebreather hits him in the head on the backswing during one of his tricks, angry cries erupting about him messing up the show. A zombie drops his severed arm prop and Kurapika steps on it, receiving a groan of irritation.

When he finally breaks through the crowd, he has to lean against the cool wall to catch his breath. His forehead is drenched, soaking through his sleeve when he wipes it. It’s so hot with all of these bodies in here. Part of him is glad he never had a teenage life like this, getting sucked into drinking and grinding bodies against strangers. His small village would have shaken to its core at the thought of him here: there’s a reason they feared and hated the outside world, and here he is, mingling in a den of sin. Her poncho clutched in his arm has his side sweating too, and he wants to drop it to the floor. He’s her bodyguard, not her maidservant.

But then he sees her slender back perched at a rustic barstool in front of one of the makeshift booths. As if they were old friends running into each other at a bar, she turns and smiles at him, waving him over to the seat next to her. It’s cooler here, to the side of the crowd, and not as unbearably loud. The tunnel stretches into complete darkness, and he wonders how far down the party extends, and where the tunnel even leads.

He wants to grab her by the wrist, drag her back through the crowd and out of the library, straight back to her room, and report back to Mr. Nostrade about her façade. But he needs a moment to catch his breath. He finds himself clutching her poncho to his chest tighter, the curve of her waist in her shiny black dress catches the low lighting, and he sits obediently beside her.

“You found me,” she says cheerfully, like she’s about to pull a dog biscuit from her pocket.

“Miss Neon, please don’t take off like that again.” Professionalism wearing paper thin, his voice leaves his body in an angry huff. Holding the black poncho in the air, he says, “Put this back on.”

But she just waves it away with her glittery nails: they have bats, orange candies, and pumpkins on them. “No, thank you.”

Instead of fighting, he drops the poncho back down to his lap.

Her neck is long and slender, leading down to the wave of her collarbone and a slight curve of cleavage resting in her sweetheart neckline. A butterfly necklace dangles on her chest, just above the ridge of her breasts. A spicy vanilla hits his nose; shockingly enough, he can smell her perfume. The way he can’t catch his breath isn’t exhaustion, and somehow through the crowd, he’s lost himself. Bits of him were caught on the spike of piercings and heels and boots, he can’t smell the smoke of his home burning, can’t hear the screams above the music. Enough of himself was lost for him to feel like a teenager, like he’s her age, right in this moment.

So when she passes him a warm paper cup with pumpkins on it, he takes a sip without question. Alcoholic apple cider pools warm in his chest and spreads throughout his body.

“Isn’t this the best party you’ve ever been to? No one else can say they’ve had a party at this venue, but Daddy practically owns this library.”

Neon is the complete opposite of him. All he can think about when he looks at this place is these people desecrating it with their drunken destructiveness. There has to be some kind of historical significance to a place like this. “What is a tunnel doing beneath a library?”

“I think they used to hide people down here, for some reason. A long, long time ago. I never could pay attention when it comes to history lessons, they’re so achingly _boring_. I say: what’s done is done. What’s buried is buried.”

It takes everything in him to not detest her. His anger swells up the way that it does before he starts yelling, but he swallows it. “Funny thing to say when you collect relics and body parts.”

But this checkmate in logic doesn’t make her take pause; she just giggles, swinging her legs off the barstool. “You’re right. I guess I just don’t love things until I sense something special from them. Otherwise, I’ll never care.”

Neon has a cup of her own cider in front of her, slender fingers curling around it. Before she’s able to put it to her lips again, he snatches it from her. He reminds himself: he’s her bodyguard. Nothing more. There’s no reason to get angry at the bad behavior of an employer, because she means nothing.

“The least you can do is let me taste-test anything you’re drinking.” He sips it, and it tastes just like his. He’s not immune like Killua or a savant at poison detection like Gon, but it tastes normal. He holds it for a few more moments, just to make sure he doesn’t start to feel sick or sleepy, and then hands it back to her. Even though he shouldn’t be giving it back to her at all.

This makes her huff, fingers digging little grooves into the cheap paper of the cup. “I’m not stupid, you know. My nail polish can detect unusual substances, and Daddy doesn’t let me go anywhere without it. Can you just relax and trust me a little bit?”

“One drink, then we head home. Or at least back upstairs.”

Neon just shakes her head, as if he’s a child asking for her to pluck a star from the sky for him. “You can stop being my dad any time now. He’s not secretly watching us or anything, waiting to fire you.”

This is the first time he’s heard her refer to Mr. Nostrade so disdainfully. Something is shaking loose in her angry eyes, nothing like temper tantrums she’s thrown in the past.

So deep underground, where no one can hear him talk back to his employer, Kurapika’s mercy to her is to not let her have her way like every other adult in her life has. Not to put her ability to make money before her own best interest. Not to let her think she’s always right. “How do you expect me to act when you’ve tricked me like this?”

There’s an anger to her swallow when she finishes the drink defiantly. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“Of course not.”

“See?”

A silence settles, as if them agreeing on this point means anything. Neither of them feel as though they’ve won an inch, let alone the whole argument, and she crosses her arms on the table in front of her.

The guy behind the booth with the electric thermos says, “Another?”

Before Kurapika can open his mouth, she nods firmly, shows him two fingers.

“Stop—Neon, we’re going.”

“Will you stop acting high and mighty for five minutes?” She turns towards him, her smile completely gone. Her eyebrows upturned.

“Me? _I’m_ the high and mighty one?” Kurapika can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all she’s done to drag him here, make him dress up, waste his time on this nonsense. Making her servants dance like monkeys and cower in corners when she’s unhappy.

The guy chuckles at the drunk couple bickering at his booth, filling up their cups. He’s seen them a thousand times before.

Neon doesn’t back down, her hair bouncing with each word she emphasizes. “Just because you’ve got a Hunter license and a _career_ doesn’t mean you’re better than me. Better than all of this.”

This makes Kurapika pause. It’s the same nagging feeling as when she said they were the same age. The disparity between them and the lonely hill he’s forced to sit on are magnified in his tipsy brain. The cruel, bloodthirsty laughter and spider tattoos following him with each waking breath. “I’m not better. I’m sorry. Just—different. It’s different for me, okay?” Something brings his hand to his face, the brim to his lips, alcohol washing down the things he almost says. He empties his cup without meaning to.

He expects this to calm her, but she looks angrier as she slams back the rest of the liquid in her cup too. “Explain it to me.”

There’s no way he’s explaining it to her, but before he can open his mouth to respond at all, a man arrives on the other side of Neon, his long hair cascading in a grey ponytail next to a rat skull necklace. He’s a tall man with long limbs and washed out skin. His ruby thumb ring settles on Neon’s bare shoulder, eclipsing it. “Is everything to your liking?”

Kurapika doesn’t recognize him, but Neon jumps out of her seat to hug him.

“Wex!” She giggles when he uses the hug to pick her up off the ground, spinning her in a small circle before putting her down. Her wings flapping in the movement. “You did amazingly—it’s so festive!” When she looks up, it causes Kurapika to look up too and see that the tunnel ceiling looks like a storybook with hanging lights, a massive projection of a red moon, glowing decals of witches, clouds, ghostly figures, and bats. “Just like the photos of downtown Yorknew – oh, how I wish I could travel there right now! Thank you for bringing it to me instead.”

“Well, except one important depiction, at your request.” Wex says, his voice so smooth it makes Kurapika embarrassed at the tone he had just taken with her moments ago. That’s when Wex’s eyes fall on him, as if sensing Kurapika is at his most vulnerable, and smiles. His teeth are sharpened—not metaphorically, but honest to god sharpened. “This is your beau?”

“Isn’t he cute?” She references him with an open palm, like showing off a small animal. “Kurapika, this is Wex. He’s a famous fashion designer in Yorknew, the designer of my costume. And the organizer of this party!”

“All for you, my dear.” Wex gives a flourishing bow, rat skull hitting his chest as he rights himself again. “And it’s nice to meet you, Kurapika. Enjoying the party so far?”

Kurapika finally identifies the disquieting feeling in his stomach—Wex’s syncopation is like Hisoka’s, words like a poisonous snake dancing through a sewer. Just how old is this guy? How long has Neon been communicating with him, without her father’s knowledge? What he really wants to do is grab this lanky bastard, drag him into the darkest part of the tunnel, and tell him never to contact her again. “We aren’t staying long. Her father doesn’t know she’s here.”

“Kurapika!” Her face is bright pink now, fists clenched at her sides. Both of them humiliating each other over and over in front of Wex, like some kind of couple’s game.

But Wex just laughs. “I assure you, this crowd is quite safe. I verified them all myself. I would never allow harm to come to her.”

“Thank you, _Wex_.” She huffs, stepping even closer to him like a child who is deciding which parent gets custody. Maybe she’s expecting them to fight over her by the end of the night, but Kurapika won’t participate. Not even the alcohol clouding his brain can get him to stoop so low, he assures himself. Neon says, “I haven’t even gotten to dance. _He_ won’t let me do anything.” Like they’re a married couple who insists on dragging their trust issues into public.

“I’m her _bodyguard_ ,” he says, much too quietly, and it gets ignored.

Wex doesn’t get ignored. He gets her rapt attention as she tilts her head to look up at his great height. “I’ll dance with you, little butterfly. And he can watch us, to make sure I don’t do anything untoward.”

She doesn’t wait for permission, taking Wex’s hand and letting him lead her to the edge of the crowd.

The music is fast, and she’s never moved so quickly, pushing and pulling her limbs to the rhythm like on a puppet string. It’s a dance Kurapika doesn’t know, but he can tell she’s skilled, not even letting her wings slow her down. She’s done this before, at home, in front of the mirror. Or maybe took lessons on the chance she’d someday be able to have a normal teenage life, going to parties and dancing with guys. If Kurapika rose from his seat right now, determined to shove Wex to the side, he would only be capable of making a fool of himself. Estimating that he would never have a normal teenage life, he never learned to dance. In his alcohol-addled brain, the biggest distance between himself and Neon right now seems to be hope. Kurapika has never had hope of a normal teenage life, or even adult life, never invested in thoughts of how to get a girlfriend, lover, or spouse.

Possibly because he never expected to live long enough.

He leans on the table, pinching the bridge of his nose as tears threaten to fall. Goddamn alcohol. Even closing his eyes is making his head spin, otherwise he wouldn’t be crying right now, especially not in a place like this. Not even close. This is so stupid and childish—he’s a bodyguard. He needs to grab Neon and get her home before his boss finds out and fires him. He needs to go into Melody’s room and talk her ear off about all of this, vent into her kindness, and then sleep until he can no longer remember this night.

“How d’you get your eyes to do that?” The alcohol peddler says, filling his cup again without asking. Which Kurapika begins drinking, letting the cup warm his hand and calm his wavering emotions. He watches Neon twirl; her arm, hair, and waist touched by Wex.

It seems like an eternity before the song ends and they come back over, Neon laughing and shaking her head like he’s the only man who has ever spoken to her.

Why would she bring Kurapika here to pretend to be her boyfriend, just to flirt with someone else? But he shouldn’t be surprised. Even if he wanted to, he can’t compete with a fashion designer from Yorknew. A man that can make all of this happen, make Neon fly out of her seat at the sheer sight of him and wrap him in a hug.

“You really missed out, Kurapika!” She doesn’t seem angry anymore, as if Wex has made everything better in just moments, fixed everything that Kurapika broke. But she still comes over to him, taking her poncho from his lap, her big eyes shining attention on him. “We should dance together next, when I catch my breath.”

Wex shifts his weight from one foot to the other, sticking a hand in his pocket and looking around at his handywork. “Hey, butterfly – come look at this. I think I found a spot I missed in the decorating.”

She turns on a dime, returns to his side, and looks around. “What? Where?”

Out of his pocket, Wex fishes out a piece of plastic, tossing it directly into the cup in Kurapika’s hand, and it makes a large splash. It’s a toy spider, and Kurapika hears himself scream above the music, the bass pounding in tune to the laughter always resting behind his ears, the tattoos burning his home to the ground. He smells smoke. Startled and seeing red, his cup slips from his hand, spilling down his front, paper cup and plastic spider clattering to the ground silently. He’s dripping with warmth, and for a moment, it’s blood. It’s his mother screaming.

But he blinks: it’s just warm cider, soaked into his tunic at a horrible party he never wanted to go to. Wex laughing. Kurapika’s hands betraying him, shaking.

Sharp teeth flash wide in the light. “You really weren’t kidding. Jesus. A grown man afraid of spiders. Holy shit!”

Drunk and dizzy, he gets to his feet. He’s still got dignity, he knows, even though it hurts like a twisted knife. As he takes a step to walk away, delicate hands grab his shoulders. “Oh—your tunic—Kurapika, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know he’d do that.”

“It’s—It’s fine. It’s just an old… an old thing. Old and dead and buried.” His words aren’t working the way he needs them to, and before he can gain his bearings, she’s leading him somewhere. The hedonists are parting for her, for them, the crowd letting them pass through so easily. They go deeper into the darkness of the tunnel, and it’s all he can do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. When did his facilities become this compromised? Like a drop of dye in water, it happened so quickly.

They walk deeper, the voices disappearing and the air getting colder. There’s just Neon’s voice saying, “Come on, this way.”

She fiddles with a key on a door, they go up some stairs, and he blinks hard. They’re suddenly in a small room with a bed, couch, armchair, and books everywhere. In the soft light of the room, he starts to feel oriented again, sitting himself down on the bed and putting his head in his hands. “Where are we?”

“It’s another thing I had Wex arrange with the library. Sorry. Guess you don’t want to hear his name right now.”

He can’t bring himself to feel anger at his name. Wex is no different than anyone else. It’s Kurapika who is the strange one, meant to be gawked at in this kind of setting, he supposes. His clothes reek of alcohol, and it’s making him nauseous. The loudest thing in the room is a clock ticking, and he’s thankful. “God, I hate parties.”

She sits next to him, casting her wings off and onto the bed; she uses her poncho to cover her chilled legs. “I thought you might enjoy this one.”

“Never. Never will I enjoy a party.”

The frown that blooms on her lips isn’t irritated, just sad. There are more patches of naked on her lip than red, having been stripped clean by sweat and drinking alcohol. In the quiet stillness of this solitary room, her shoulders slump from exhaustion.

Kurapika’s drunk mouth doesn’t know when to shut up, and can’t ignore that he’s sitting on the bed Neon asked Wex to put here. “Don’t use me in your next hookup scheme. Use Basho—or, I don’t know. Just leave me out of it.”

“Oh, drunk little flower.” Her body is straight and proper as she stands, as still as if she were dressed in a kimono. She folds the poncho and sets it on the pillow. When his eyes slip closed, he feels her tugging the tunic off his body. He’s too weak to fight her, left in his stained white undershirt and pants. Then her Halloween nails work off his white shirt, catching his stomach so gently it makes him jump. “You still don’t realize, do you?”

Trying to summon up even a modicum of energy to fight—to protest— _anything_ —doesn’t work. Her long red legs part to straddle his lap, sitting with her feather weight on his hips, and wraps her arms around his neck. Beneath her sweetheart neckline, she has no bra, and as the material unsticks from her skin, the perfect pink, roundness of her nipples tear his brain to pieces of worthless mush. It happens so quickly, the way his body transforms into a conduit for feeling pleasure, with no other use but to sit there and stare and feel. Ripples of pleasure and excitement surge through his blood. Every nerve in his naked chest is on fire, like under a Nen ability, and he can’t control it. It’s too much. Her skin warm and soft even beneath the hand he places on her tights.

How her smile twists into something predatory when she feels his erection beneath her makes his heart hammer. “But your body realizes at least, thank god.” Hands running down his chest, she bounces a bit, appreciating his body being more responsive to her than he ever was.

She tastes like bitterness when she kisses him. He feels used—lined up like dominos, dragged around, gotten drunk, and now played with for her amusement. It feels so good, but he hates himself for it, letting her push her tongue into his mouth, drooling down his own chin. “ _Why,_ ” he whispers into hot breaths exchanged between their mouths, “Why not go find Wex?”

Kissing the side of his mouth, the rest of her red lipstick smears across his lips. “Did you know that Hemotropic butterflies undergo painful metamorphosis when making the transformation from caterpillar to beautiful butterfly?”

His dick straining, his head swimming from the alcohol and her perfume clouding his brain, he says, “ _Huh?_ ”

“It’s so painful, scientists don’t know why evolution has done this to them.” Stabbing sharp kisses down his chin and trailing his jawbone, she stops at his earlobe, biting it until his toes curl in pain and his earrings jingle in protest. “You know what I wonder?” Kurapika thinks his earlobe is bleeding. “Why would a species, that can live easily off nectar, be attracted to blood in the first place?” Her nails trail down, tickling his sternum on the descent, tracing each curve of the muscle he’s tensing. “Afterall, animals that are wounded are hard to pin down, and they certainly aren’t tranquil enough to let a butterfly land on them. They’re more likely to be stomped, clawed, or bitten from getting close to a wounded animal.”

“ _Stop,_ ” he pleads as her hand reaches its inevitable destination, squeezing through the fabric, leaning her hips forward with each stroke.

“I think,” she breathes on his neck, leaving teeth marks wherever her whims bring her mouth to land. His chest heaves more intensely than any fight he’s ever been in. “They’re drawn to the pain of other animals because of what they go through. They know what pain looks like, what it feels like. That’s why they don’t stick to the sweetness of nectar.”

All he can do is groan, straining against his clothing and the weight of her body heat against his. Rarely does he touch himself—his libido sits at the bottom of a dark pit, waiting for the dread and anger sitting in his stomach to make room for any other feeling to surface, but they rarely do.

It’s all he can do to focus, keep himself from coming, when she bypasses the waistband of his pants. Hungrily, she roams his sweaty body, drinking in every shudder that shoots through him. Her skin touching his is fire, his hips moving on their own, every tug of her soft hand bringing him dangerously close to the edge.

Neon suddenly stops, sliding off him and yanking at his pants with both hands. He has to arch his back so she can get them down, both underwear and pants pooling at his feet. Even his drunken state has enough dignity to feel vulnerable, stripped bare, and embarrassed. His face burns as she examines his hard dick, but she looks fascinated and happy, like she does when she’s won a new specimen from an auction.

He expects that maybe she will continue to toy with him, or even walk away, but she presses her knees together, feeling her own wetness, and looks antsy. Tights soaked through, the darker shade of red visible between her legs as she lifts her dress, she slides her tights down along with a pair of red panties hidden beneath. Flipping her dress around 180 degrees like some sort of magic trick, she unzips herself from the front, stepping out of the tight black fabric, left in only her butterfly necklace. For a moment, she looks embarrassed too, but it fades as she cups her breasts, bending over and pressing them together so he can see. She’s practiced this in front of the mirror too. She knows she’s gorgeous; it’s not exactly a secret.

Kurapika’s mouth hangs open as she climbs back on top of him, pressing her mouth to his even harder than she did before, bare body pressed to his chest, squirming to feel him against her breasts and moaning into him. She tastes like his blood, her nails tickling his muscular back in excitement. The heat of her thighs makes his dick ache, but she holds herself up off him, as if knowing he will bust if pushed any further right now.

“There’s no way for a dumb, hurt animal to comprehend that the Hemotropic butterfly has experienced similar pain.” She reaches beneath herself, soft fingertips taking hold of his aching erection, her eyes digging holes into his. “If I were a butterfly, I’d force the animal to see past its own pain.” Pressing the head of his cock into her, she bites her lip, her eyes fluttering closed and whimpering a moan. Voice at a breathy whisper, she says, “If two beasts lay in pain together, licking each other’s wounds, it’s so much less lonely.”

“Neon—” He doesn’t know how he’s going to respond to that, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything at all as she lowers herself down the rest of the way, enveloping him entirely. Moans leak from his throat, and he tries to cover his mouth to keep himself from having to hear them, but she pulls his hands down, placing them on her waist.

“I’ve waited—so, _so_ long for this.” Those beautiful blue eyes twist shut, nails digging into the back of his neck as she slams her hips down. Controlling the pace, she fucks herself with his cock over and over, wetness spilling onto his legs and balls, a slapping noise piercing the peaceful room as she rides him harder. She moans, shrieks, and gasps over his own breathy noises, getting louder as she gets closer; her pleasured voice sends electric waves through his body. He can’t take it anymore.

“Neon— _wait_ — _stop_ —” His brain can’t even think of the word for ‘condom’ right now. As much as he should tell her, he can’t. His voice gets higher in desperation, “I’m—I’m going to—”

But she clamps her mouth over his, biting his bottom lip hard, and slams her hips down harder and faster as he comes inside her. She doesn’t stop, continuing to move and pierce herself, licking his blood into both of their mouths until she suddenly screams out, “ _Kurapika!_ ” and clenches around him in an orgasm that makes her body shudder above him.

Legs twitching, she leans her full weight against him. He holds her bodyweight up, feeling her heart pounding against his chest. They stick together in a mess of sweat, breathing and feeling everything that they’ve waited so long to feel. Neither of them having gotten the chance to live this kind of joyful life, neither of them thinking they ever truly would.

His sobering brain is immediately humiliated by what he’s said to her, the way he’s thought of her up until this point. The implications he’s made that she can’t possibly understand him, that she’s lived a life without pain.

It’s not like he didn’t know her past, but his own was so looming and large in his mind’s eye that there was no room for anyone else’s. Holding her small, limp body, he thinks of the life she leads as her father’s source of income. His cash cow. Losing consciousness to provide value to herself as a person, cherished for something she can neither choose nor take credit for. Born with something that happens to be useful, no one ever expects her to prove herself or be anything more. Just show up and lose consciousness, so that someone else can inhabit her body and do something more valuable than she’s able to do with it. She doesn’t even have the luxury of remembering anything after. Does she often think about how long her life will go on like this? How will she ever break free from a life chosen for her, not only by her father, but by her birth?

Pain knows pain, doesn’t it?

“That’s why you said I can’t sense pain.” Kurapika says suddenly. “I’ve never really _seen you_ , have I?”

Neon shakes her head against his neck. He’s still inside her, but neither of them moves. The smell of their mixed sweat rises and chokes the room. “I know it’s because you’re in pain, dummy.”

She rides the deep vibrations of his laughter that shakes in his chest. “I’m just a dumb animal in pain.”

“I can’t believe you thought I liked Wex. God—what a douchebag.”

The Kurapika that sat at that booth, drinking and envious, existed decades ago. But he’s still embarrassed as he plays the memories in his mind. “There’s one thing I don’t get.”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you tell him that I’m afraid of spiders?”

She sits up then, a pout on her face. “That jerk! I only told him that so he wouldn’t put up any spider decorations. I didn’t expect him to use it against you like that. I’m never hiring him to organize a party for me ever again. In fact, I’m blackballing him! I’m going to call all of my contacts and make sure he never sees another job.”

Something soars in his stomach then, knocking against his ribs and making his hands shake. He takes her bare shoulders in his hands, holding her still, and presses his broken lips to hers. Every inch of him means it. When he pulls away, eyes unable to meet hers, her cheeks flush. “You did that—for me?”

She slaps his chest, face burning. “What are you saying all of a sudden? Of course I did. You really _are_ dumb! This was all for you.”

Blinking, he tries to remember anything that had been _for him_. He can’t think of anything. “But I hate parties.”

“No duh! Because you haven’t been to a good one. You’re always uncomfortable. I thought maybe if you wore your tunic, got a little drunk, and didn’t see any spiders, that you could loosen up. Have a little fun. Live in ways you don’t think you need to, but you do. You desperately need to loosen up.”

His tunic lays on the bed, on top of her butterfly wings. It still reeks of apple spice and alcohol. “You told that butler to lay out my tunic as a costume?”

“I knew you wouldn’t choose to come as a _horse jockey_ ,” she laughs. “Not if you had a choice, anyway.”

He can’t help but smile; he’d been so bitter and distressed at the entire thing, but it just seems funny now. “You evil little girl. Using your money and privilege to orchestrate this whole thing, manipulating me, and pushing me into bed with you.”

“If you have money, why not use it?” She sighs, tracing tiny circles into his shoulder with the tip of her nail. “Everyone thinks it’s wrong to use the privileges you’re born with, but we have to deal with the pains we’re born with, so why not? I’ve accepted this curse and I’ll accept the money too.”

What privilege has being a Kurta left him? He was only taught about the curses: the dangers of his red eyes, being different from others, being gawked at, being hunted and despised for having eyes that have morphed colors for centuries, strong in his people’s genes. They aren’t a people of power, technological ingenuity, arts, or intelligence. They were a blip on the map of human races, snuffed out and not missed by anyone.

“Like, if I were you,” she continues, dips her fingertips past his eyelids, grabs his contacts, and lifts them out. It’s as though she knows what he’s thinking, predicting his line of logic better than he can predict hers. “I would use my red eyes to pick up women. How beautiful. You should use them to your advantage.”

“Who told you?” His eyes, he knows, are as red as hell fire. But she doesn’t wince, doesn’t turn away.

“No one. I have eyes, you know. Especially when I’m usually sneaking peeks at you.” She giggles. “And once I saw the eyes, I knew the source of your pain. History is so _boring_ , I told you, unless it’s something special. And the Kurtas were— _are_ something special.” She sticks out her tongue, winking, not giving him a moment to protest or respond. “So don’t you dare underestimate me again. I’ll tie you down next time if I have to. I’ll slip roofies in your drink. Don’t test me!”

Falling back on the bed, he takes her with him, and she weighs next to nothing with her entire body resting on his. From this angle, her hair falling on his chest in wild strands, she’s just as powerful as she is vulnerable. A girl who has had to create her own sense of self from nothing, separate herself from her role, from her father, from her status and power. She’s managed to become her own person with her own desires, still retaining hope for having a future, despite her pain. Taking dancing lessons. Imagining her own body pressed to someone else. Daring to love another person and hoping that he will see her. Getting back up after every cold shrug he gives her. Dreaming and planning an event to make him fall for her.

Neon Nostrade is right: she cannot be underestimated. She can’t be stopped. She’ll get whatever she wants, and she’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen. Why someone like her wants Kurapika, who is from an extinct race of hermits, is a complete mystery. There’s no Yorknew flash, no pizzazz, no honor to be gained from wanting him. Sobering up rapidly, she starts shrinking from his mind, replaced by the ever-present image of the Phantom Troupe. This isn’t just about him being a nobody; he has a responsibility, a desperate need to see the Phantom Troupe pay dearly. The smoke is just behind his eyes again, and he’s finding it hard to look at her.

His voice floats into the air like mist. “Neon, you don’t have to fall for someone else with pain, you know. You’re overcoming yours, not drowning in it. There’s no reason for you to pursue a dumb animal who can’t even see you above his own pain.”

“I told you already.” Her necklace is hovering, as if flying, between both of their naked chests. “What’s the point of Hemotropic butterflies if you’re just going to give them nectar?”

Sweat burns the back of his neck now—not the kind from a good workout or passionate sex—but dread. The sober kind of sweat, like spiders crawling down his spine. “Look, Neon. I can’t do this. I can’t stay in one place. I don’t actually plan to stay in your father’s employ forever, I have a goal I need to accomplish. I can’t sleep until it’s done. I can’t rest, I can’t give up, I can’t die. If I have to chase it for the rest of my life to accomplish it, I have to. You need to climb higher than me and don’t look down.”

He expects her to cry, to get angry, to tell him he’s not going anywhere. But she kisses one of the bite marks she gave him, the skin bruised and raised, the broken skin scabbing over already. Every expectation he’s had of her up until now, he realizes, has been dead wrong. She’s beyond his comprehension. “That’s okay. You can run as far as you’d like. Even if you finish your task, meet someone else, and forget all about me, you’ll always smell of pain. And I can sense pain. You’re not the only one who can give chase.”

Her breath smells like his blood, and her claws are already lodged into his flesh. She’s identified his scent and can hear every beat of his heart. Even if she’s fluttering slowly behind him, she won’t lose sight of him. He’s an open wound with bright red blood, and they both know that’s never going to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW. Man, I hope I didn't get anything wrong. I'm not used to writing these characters, so please be gentle with me (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡
> 
> Please let me know what you think!! No comment is too short or too long. Even if I don't respond, I read every single comment and I smile! Each one makes me so happy. Feel free to give me quotes you liked, things you expected to happen instead, and what you think their future will be!
> 
> Thank you for giving my fics a shot. If you're interested in future updates and fics from me, subscribe to me on here and/or follow my twitter account: https://twitter.com/shiroppan. I will also be doing another auction in the future, if that's your cup of tea. 
> 
> Love you all ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ Thanks for reading!


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